Let us dispense with these.
Because nothing knows no one these days...
And we know by network, the social...
And they have not accounts.
Not to settle nor to log in to.
Let them rest in peace
These symbols of old.
We know them not and we know not ourselves.
Let us drown ourselves in the trivial as we wish.
None of them are real, yet neither are we: hyper-real.
Let us deal in the realm of the eather, and steal.
"... the calm is heavy. Not a breath of wind is blown."
And in the day of slow feeds... we find our selves restless.
Like it is always the eye of something, but not the beholder.
The calm is always the absence of the storm we love ourselves in...
It is never the self that we avoid, we will to not-find.
Never us, never you, never me...
We need neither.
We need the whole, not divided
only sorted: top or recent.
And it plays out: tubed or texted
never in the real, for us most
Ground zero is lost
lost in a line of time... one without space-- hyper-real.
Let's grab those stones and strike them
to start a fire that is real, that brings us back
to hands that work and feed
to backs that bend but don't break
in work for ourselves
to times around that fire
with no other lights
to times that we times, primitive
without pieces to count them
No pockets, no packets, no connections
just to what we can touch and feel
in the now
one that is limited
finite, not surreal
and infinite
just waiting to be unfolded
again
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